


The Joke

by tyroneslothrop



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: ...or is it?, Alcohol, Drabble, Drug Abuse, Drug Use, Ficlet, I wanna be James Joyce so fuckin bad, M/M, Paranormal, Shuffle Challenge, Unusual amount of Beatles references
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-16
Updated: 2015-08-16
Packaged: 2018-04-15 01:29:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4587885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tyroneslothrop/pseuds/tyroneslothrop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Put your music player on shuffle and write drabbles for the first 10 songs that come up."</p><p>Phil is a ghost. Probably.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Joke

**I. Fall Out Boy - Pavlove**

_It's three drinks too late to talk to anyone but myself_

_It's a three-and-two pitch to walk to anywhere-else, no_

_I'm the invisible man_

_Who can't stop staring at the mirror, at the mirror_

 

There's a silent dusty ache thrumming in the air of the apartment. Air is bleeding crimson red. Can ghosts feel? Are friends electric? Phil is floating in the corner of the living room, almost faded in with the white ceiling. He smiles wispily, as if it isn't allowed, and his eyes crinkle ever so slightly. But he remains stoic and unreadable, like two blue glass marbles floating ethereally.

 

Dan's fear is palpable.

 

His body is drenched over the couch and he stares, as Phil's face contours and drips from recognizable into fragmented nothings, his eyes twitching and doing the junky jig. He's above him now, barely tangible. The fine hairs on his arms feel like needles. The window cracks illuminate his pale skin, opalescent and scintillating in the white washed room. Defenestration. The word grips Dan's throat and refuses to let go.

 

An epiphany blows in from the bottom of the doorway.

 

Phil's form begins to tremble around the room, pupils oscillating, face schizophrenic, delirious, till he takes off, leaving Dan cold. Emotional solstice grips him.

 

Dan stands up and dances the junky jig.

 

-

 

Dan's eyes are iridescent in the cracked jaw of the moonlight. Phil tries not to get carried off with the passing clouds. Dan displays great valor and exertion in supervising his lungs. Phil spends the night training in him oneirology, dancing the junky jig. For sale: box of condoms, never used. Lucid. He flies down to part his lips with his own and kiss him sweetly, and it feels like kissing a gust of air. Dan responds wholeheartedly, his heart in the roof of his mouth. It meets no-one.

 

They glide through the crystalline night, blotches of purple and orange dangling in front of their peripheral vision. Would anyone lose sleep over him dying, 1 year into the future? Alas, poor Daniel. I knew him well, Phillip: a fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy: he hath borne me on his back a thousand times...

 

Phil drifts off without warning, and it's a "Fuck you" more omnipotent than any gratuitous fuck you Dan's ever served. Phil's presence in his life has became so prevalent that he has became a noun. He is syntax, a part of the story, the one you're reading right now. The punctuation has fallen off like bottles on a wall.

 

Sometimes when his bedroom feels slightly warmer (but, alas, his ceiling is still dancing in front of him) he wraps his hand around his cock, imagines what he'd do if Phil wasn't an omnipresent, anthropomorphic being. As he gets nearer to jumping off the edge, his fantasies get more erratic. Phil dangling a knife in front of him. Needles. Phil dancing the junky jig. Blood hitting the pillowcase.

 

Do you want to take the wheel?

 

The panorama of neon lights bleeding outside the car window drowns itself in Phil's irises and, for a split second, Dan sees emotion.

 

It's gone as soon as it comes, and he pretends it never happened.

 

**II. Kendrick Lamar – The Blacker the Berry**

_Six in the morn', fire in the streets_

_Burn baby burn, it's all I wanna see_

_And sometimes I get off watching you die in vain_

_It's such a shame, they may call me crazy_

 

Arsonists targeting the local library has became a recurrent thing. It's not political commentary by a freshman who just finished Fahrenheit 451, rather a group of stoners who have nothing better to do than scratch their nuts, listen to The Beach Boys and, well, set fire to libraries.

 

Phil knows them. He lights up with them sometimes, almost always dragging along a reluctant Dan with him. Today is one of those days, and if Phil notices his discomfort, he doesn't seem to particularly care. Brian Wilson's opening bars of I Just Wasn't Made for These Times sound through the crack of the filthy window, creating a cacophony with the jeers and laughs of the smokers residing inside, and Dan has to breathe deeply through his nose to collect himself.

 

He's dragged into the smoke and he instantly chokes, earning a laugh from the entire hostel of druggies. Phil instantly sits down and lights up, and drags him down with him. He cuddles into his side, wanting to hide away from all the inquisitive eyes. Come and keep your comrade warm.

 

“So when the fire started we heard sirens instantly, and now, keep in mind Joahnna is stoned out his nut, so he tries to hide in the garbage can...”

 

The speaker is eyeing Dan whilst telling this riveting anecdote, so he makes sure to smile appropriately, like someone weilding a string puppet. This excercise in Dan's patience ends with Johnny or whatever actually avoiding the cops. Dan laughs like he's going to throw up. They then sit like that in passive silence, Dan able to feel the slice of each second passing.

 

“He ever smoked before?” one of the more grimy ones say, gesturing to Dan with the end of their still alight blunt, and Dan burrows himself further into his boyfriends armpit. He knew this would be coming, he just hoped it would have been postponed for longer.

 

“Nah, you wanna?” Phil slurs, giving Dan a look. He nods, puppy eyes now in full motion. Phil is unaffected.

 

Phil holds out his blunt to Dan's face and he hopes his grimace isn't noticeable. The bastarding thing reeks of body odor and faintly of moisturizer. He takes it clumsily and inhales briefly, feeling his lungs erupt and weep for mercy. He hands it back, coughing faintly, tears in his eyes, and he hopes he isn't asked to smoke more. The gang have other plans. On the way the paper bag was on his knee, man he had a dreadful flight. Time passes like a nonchalant ghost, each click of the giant grandfather clock commanding the room, mocking Dan from above him. The slow scissoring hands of the face have a bird eye's view of failure. Dan hitches his shirt up, gives it a better picture.

 

There's three thick raps on the door and a thick Southern accent sounds from outside.

 

“Come out with your hands up.”

 

**III. The Smiths – This Charming Man**

_But in this charming car, this charming man_

_Why tantalize complexity_

_When the leather runs smooth on the passenger seat?_

 

The sun is sweltering down in merry Manchester, and a drunkard has decided to smash his beer bottle on the town's bridge. The air reeks of wetted ashes, and the deflation of the tire imitates the fall of Dan's chest, mocking him somehow. He reaches for the bottle of water in his basket and glugs from it heartily with his arm fanned over his forehead, leaning against the bridge, looking every part of a despairing widowed maiden. The air vibrates and dances in front of his eyes and the sun's glare is so defiant that it makes his green bike look murky orange in the light. He doesn't have the energy to stick his thumb out.

 

Despite it, after 15 minutes of dirty vehicles almost skinning the bottom of his bare feet, an expensive looking model slows down next to him. It's a rarity in this part of town, for anyone to be above the middle class, and Dan hopes he isn't as visibly shocked as he feels. Alas, agape he must be, because the handsome stranger turns his window down, pokes his head out and grins.

 

The boot opens up automatically. “Put your bike in there, then!”

 

Struggling to carry it in his soft undeveloped arms, he throws it in carelessly before taking in the expensive exterior. He gulps.

 

“Y'alright?” he hears, and he only just notices that he has a lovely, thick Northern accent.

 

“Yeah, just... won't it get your car dirty? I'm sorry,” he says and the man laughs throatily.

 

“It's fine, hop in.”

 

Gingerly placing himself in the slot next to this gorgeous man, he feels cheap and filthy. The entire interior is cream and spotless. Dan's hands are trembling and sweating, and he blotches the cream swede with his perspiration. If the man notices, he doesn't mention it.

 

“Where to then?”

 

He gives him his address, stuttering a bit, and the man does nothing but smile sweetly which only serves to make Dan feel more grimy and disgusting.

 

“Don't live to far from there myself, darling,” he says, “wont be 20 minutes. So, did you just get exhausted then?”

 

“No, my tire got caught in some shards...”

 

He tuts. “The only good drunkard is a dead one.”

 

Conversation flows easily, albeit a bit clumsily from Dan's side, but Phil (he is told his name only seconds after the drunkard comment) finds it endearing. They find that they both have an avid interest in reading (Dan likes Proust and Woolf, whereas Phil enjoys Austen and Dickens) and dancing (Phil attends balls regularly, but Dan is made to settle with makeshift gatherings in his parents house). Phil seems to ponder something briefly, but the look disappears from his eyes before Dan can enquire.

 

Traffic lights stop their journey briefly, and he notes duly that Phil's eyes drag up and down his figure like his body is a pawn shop.

 

The day is slowly dimming now, the slow ache of the sun drifting back to it's personal abyss. The sky has a purple tint to it, like the corpse of a long gone maiden, the clouds like sunken cheeks and eye sockets. The trees violently wave them into each street like they're leading them to something unbeneficial for the both of them. But alas, they keep going.

 

“There's a gathering happening close to where I live tonight, would you do me the honour of coming with me?”

 

Dan's blush rises before he can stop it. Phil notices, because he gives a hearty laugh. His fingers start dancing of their own accord, and he feels the sweat trickle onto the fabric clothing his thighs. The sun is briefly prismatic, beaming into the tinted windows like it wants entrance. Dan spreads his timid legs, allows it.

 

“I'd love to, but I haven't got a stitch to wear, I'm afraid.” The sun leaves again.

 

“Well, if you ask me... I think it's gruesome that someone so handsome should care.”

 

Dan was crimson now, a coy smile tugging at his lips. The conversation ends there, and they sit in comfortable silence as the houses around them slowly bleed into one another, becoming larger, more grand, more intimidating, till finally they slow in front of the grandest house on the block, pillared, spotless white.

 

“This is my house, I've got some clothes you could borrow. Want to come inside?”

 

Dan steps out without a word and they walk towards the door, the car fading in the slow dripping loom of the night. The house is styled exquisitely but Dan has no interest in the fancy house plants and interior. There is a teasing ghost dancing in the pair of blue eyes above him, laughing at him, reeking of wettened ashes.

 

“Come upstairs with me?”

 

And yes I said yes I will yes.

 

**IV. New Order - Temptation**

_No, I've never met anyone quite like you before_

_Thoughts from above hurt the people down below_

_People in this world, we have no place to go_

 

Someone has set the pub on fire.

 

The night swallowed him, and Dan thought he might have been lost for a second, but he found Phil's skin underneath his own hands, their bones trying to break out and touch, be the purest form of human they can be. Oh, how thee stars hung like razor blades in the night sky, flickering like they were trying to navigate themselves to the angels' wrists! Fire was licking the edges of the pub now, and it shone underneath the sliver of fat under Phil's chin. He looked like Satan himself, smirking under the dim moon, ravished, overjoyed, in scandalized ascent to the skies. Dan sighed, the breath barely moving the weight of the air, and they moved in and they kissed, kissed till they no longer knew what was saliva and what was tears. The dying pulse of the night hung around them like a noose, it was just a matter of who kicked the chair first.

 

Do you beseech me, oh tyrant God? With thunder in your fingers and a black cloud for a heart. My life is in your cracked hands. Help me. Do you beseech me to stay? Inhabit this body that demands more than I can give? Do you beseech me? Help me. Dan didn't realize, but he was whispering into Phil's mouth.

 

He feels the sting before he sees the blur of his hand, and before he can retaliate, Phil is running towards the pub.

 

**V. Talking Heads – The Overload**

_I'm touched by your pleas_

_I value these moments_

_We're older than we realize_

_In someone's eyes_

 

The way Dan's body grinds back against the hard mattress reminds Phil of a mortar and pestle. His skin is sunken, unhealthy, his ribs almost like small chunks on his chest. The way his breathing is laboured is due to more than the dick rammed up his arse right now. The walls loom into them both, judging.

 

Phil's nails are sunk into Dan's gelatinous hips, and they seem to go in deeper than normal. He thinks he can feel organs. Dan can feel the acid in his stomach bouncing with each clumsy, too rough thrust. The stretch marks on his arse are illuminated by the sunshine streaking into their tiny room, like small red spindly snakes crawling up and down him, threatening to choke his thighs.

 

Phil's eyes are bulging nearly out his sockets, oscillating, the veins almost beckoning Dan. He removes his hands from his thighs and grips his chest a bit too hard, and draws blood. The walls are passive now. No-one is interested. Open your legs and think of the desert. Open your legs and think of the Earth. Open your legs and count the strips of sunlight speckling itself on your boyfriend's cellulite.

 

Phil eventually shoots an expulsion of cum with Dan, who has been jerking his cock dejectedly. He can almost feel it splattering and curdling inside his intestines. His eyes are moist.

 

They awaken hours later, drenched in sweat and spunk, the sun rising in the North. The walls have collapsed. The sky is their ceiling now. Good morning.

 

**VI. Lauren Anderson – O Superman (for Massenet)**

_"Hello? Is anybody home?"_

_"Well, you don't know me, but I know you,_

_And I've got a message to give to you”_

_And I said: okay. Who is this really?_

_And the voice said: "This is the hand, the hand that takes"_

 

Dan grows to become accustomed to that look, that there-but-not-quite-there leer, the melted parody of a face, a long standing satire of human expression. Sometimes his facial muscles try to form themselves into a grin for Dan, but instead they waltz on his face in what appears to be more of a seizure than a smile. They say your significant other should become your mirror. Dan must be living in a fucking fun house.

 

Later that night, after 2 slaps on the wrist from the police. 11 PM. Prayer in C. The moon hangs in the sky like a smashed ornament. Phil is the one wielding the hammer. Phil skateboards from the stillness of their house and in the dancing night lights of the village, Dan trailing behind in his wake. Someone's burned the pub again. The newspapers report 5 deaths. Oh well.

 

“What now?”

 

Phil clicks his tongue and points North and Dan follows dutifully, like an adoring dog.

 

They enter the ruins of a castle, the trees surrounding it reluctantly waving, welcoming them in. They graciously accept.

 

Languidly, they lay on the jagged rocks, drinking anodyne cider from the bottle, bantering about nothing in particular, masquerading as intellectuals. Slowly Dan slumps lower down the wall, affected by the alcohol in his system. Phil seems to almost do the same.

 

Dan thought this might have been done with, but apparently not. Phil's body begins to glitch and disappear and reappear in front of him, leering. He stays laying down, hypnotized by the stuttering figure floating above him. He floats away. Warmth seeps back into the air. Dan is sleepy. He doesn't bother to go looking. Sleep beckons him and he falls into their arms, his nosehole snoring to the moon.

 

He awakens hours later, drenched in sweat and spunk, the moon sinking in the South. The walls have collapsed. The sky is his ceiling now. Dan is cold. Good evening.

 

**VII. John Cale – Paris 1919**

_And on Fridays she'd be there_

_And on Wednesday not at all_

_Just casually appearing from the clock across the hall_

_You're a ghost..._

 

The amethyst night doubles as a cloak. He's holding Phil's hand, being walked to the ball, a few steps behind. He's dressed in a suit, a bit too big, which smells of moisturizer and something unpleasant that Dan can't put his finger on. Phil's hand is warm and wooden, calloused but still slightly smooth. Dan wants to feel it on other parts of his body. He blushes.

 

Soon enough, the location has been reached. The venue stands over Dan, judging him, somehow seeing through his dolled up appearance. He is scared now, but Phil's tugging hand is insistent, and so he climbs the steps, clunky heels crashing into the marble, revealing him as a fraud. Phil is endeared. The doors swallow them.

 

The glass ceiling of the venue is kaleidoscopic on Dan's face. Phil admires him, his profile gazing up in wonderment, puppy dog eyes, the soft supple flesh of his jaw illuminated white. Phil wants to kiss him, so he does, their lips softly, barely meeting, repeatedly, drifting through each other. When they part, Dan's eyes are rimmed red, moist, crinkled, smiling. Phil kisses his knuckles.

 

They're stood in a gay friendly gathering place posing as a high class ballroom. Police round here don't seek out trouble from the upper class if they know what's good for them. Entanglements of ladies and men surround them. Neither of them are interested in the company.

 

And so they dance, thus spoke God, shining from the glass paneling. Dan's body is soft and languid despite the stiff suit he's sheathed in, and Phil runs his pale hands around his form, navigating the small of his back. Despite being slightly awkward in the company, he has rhythm, and they make it work, somehow managing to smoothly surpass the other dancers, not even a graze upon their relaxed backs. Their intestines are intertwined now, hearts thumping together, the soft wet specter of Dan's admiration timidly reaches for Phil and he grabs it, tugging him to the bathroom. The toilet tiles are smiling to him, aware of the turmoil in his heart, the commotion in his stomach. Phil's stomach responds in kind, their duodenum's slinking together like two heated lovers. Their lips reach again. Their brains leap out from their concaves. Phil's body is transparent in the claustrophobic stall.

 

**VIII. Talking Heads – Once in a Lifetime**

_Time isn't holding up_

_Time isn't after us_

_Same as it ever was_

_Same as it ever was_

 

He finds his floating body above the ruins of the pub ashes, like a stray balloon. His eyes are closed, but he pics up his scent cannibalistically, floating back down to meet him. They walk in almost tangible silence, the awkwardness stiff between them. Dan's mouth is like thick sandpaper and he reeks of sweat. The night makes soup of his head.

 

Isometric buildings curve over their bodies, slowly turning more expensive and lavish as the moon sinks further into the horizon, till Phil abruptly stops, making Dan sift through him.

 

A cathedral stands before them, shining in the tranquil sky, aware of its own grandiloquent presence. Dan feels slightly intimidated, but Phil is floating towards it, so he follows dutifully, clunky heels crashing into the marble. The doors swallow him. Dan needs a piss.

 

He wades through a throng of same sex couples before he finally reaches the poorly labelled toilets, crashing through the doors, Phil's phantom hot on his tail. There's moans coming from the larger stall, which takes him aback, first because of how unashamed they are, and secondly because they sound strangely like...

 

**IX. Stiff Little Fingers – Closed Groove**

_Must do what you're told to be free_

_Think what you like, if you agree with me_

_Beep beep I've got very strong views_

_Plug in any loop tape you choose_

 

...Phil must have the same idea for the look he gives him is nothing short of concerned. Dan looks away, throwing cold water on his face from the sink instead. His reflection in the mirror is bloodshot, sunken, his ribs showing through his shirt, like small chunks on his chest. He thought this was finished, but alas, here he is, stuttering in the glass, doing the junky jig once again. Phil, invisible in the mirror, but present on Dan's back, places a not-there kiss to his cheek, before disappearing, presumably upwards.

 

Meanwhile Dan was pushed against the cold tiles, being fucked mercilessly by a rich man he had met not hours before. Dan was loud and he knew it, and he prayed eternally that no-one would walk in. Phil looked down on him and he looked like Satan himself, smirking under the dim lights, ravished, overjoyed. So was he. His head hit the tiles, like blood hitting the pillow case. Phil looked pleased at this, tongue sticking out like a knife dangling in front of him. Honey disconnect the phone.

 

“I will come,” said Dan, for he would, but as he gazed to the ceiling he met another figure. An omnipotent being, like two blue glass marbles floating ethereally, observed him, and he let him. What is this terror? what is this ecstasy? he thought to himself.

 

It is Phil, he said.

 

For there he was.


End file.
